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Zolf sees Hamid fall, defenceless, and he already knows it won’t end like this. Absolutely not. His hope is unshakable, because Hamid is still breathing. And as long as Hamid is breathing, he will keep being stubborn and argumentative and ignorant and keep trying to be better. He doesn’t stop like this. Zolf’s bones know it, the way they once knew an approaching sea storm, and now know the aching lightness of optimism.
Hope flows through his hand into Hamid, knits the wounds and wakes him from sleep, and there was never any doubt in Zolf’s mind that it would.
When Zolf sees Wilde lifeless and still on the floor, his hope is suddenly fragile. Wilde is not breathing, and there is no ritual to bring him back this time, no tried and trusted method. Hope is all Zolf has. He pictures Wilde alone on the deck of the Valiant again, feet dangling over the edge into nothing. Zolf tries to have faith that he’ll be waiting there again, just like before. You came back to me once, he thinks desperately. I still need you. Come back again. Please.
Hope dangles by a fine thread. Zolf breathes, and it shudders.